Hello people! Hope this day brings you joy in some form.
For today’s flashback Friday I’m bringing back a short story I wrote in September 2012. I did a bit of editing, of course. Why is it one can always find ways of improving on a story? I do hope you enjoy one of my earliest endeavors.
His lungs burned with the effort of running. Yet he ran on. He could hear his pursuer behind him as he ran. His feet were bloody, cut up by the sticks, small stones and leaves underfoot. The trees overhead swayed with the wind. His ears were full of the sound of his battered feet hitting the barely seen trail and his labored breathing.
He was terrified because he couldn’t remember how he got to this place. He didn’t know what he was running from. He just knew that he needed to get away. He didn’t even know what was chasing him or why. Just glimpses of something not human, eyes glowing green. The sweat pours down his face and stings his eyes as they search for someplace to hide.
He was desperate to stop and catch his breath. He was afraid if he did he would collapse and that thing would be on him. His fear was pushing him on, his desire to live was driving him to keep breathing and to keep running. He didn’t want to die.
It seemed to him that the sounds behind him were growing fainter. He hoped he had finally outrun it. He spies something off to the side that looks like a shack. He makes a sudden turn without slowing down. A hundred yards or more and he was at the run down building. His shoulder hits the door and it crashes open.
He slides to a stop inside, turns and slams the door shut again. Quickly looking around he spots a wooden chair and pulls it over to jam under the door knob. He collapses in the middle of the room, his breath ragged. He wipes his sweaty face with what’s left of his shirt. He forces his breath to slow, his ears listening for any noise outside. He closes his eyes to listen. But there is nothing to hear. Not even insects. It was eerily calm.
Suddenly there was a loud crash against the door! A large body was slamming against it, but the chair and door don’t give. His heart pounding, he desperately searches the shack for some kind of weapon. Anything to make him feel he might have a chance. He notices a number of small windows set high in the walls. No way for anything to crawl through. A cot with rotted bedding sits against one wall. A large empty fireplace is against the back wall. He notices a heavy, hooked fire poker laying half in and half out of it. It could do some damage if necessary. As he holds it in his hands he instantly feels better, for at least now has a weapon.
He surveys the rest of the shack. Shelves with unknown, rusted tins are on the wall opposite the rotting bed. A small round table sits in the middle of the room with the mate of the chair under the door knob laying on its side next to it. The table has a thick layer of dust on it. Doesn’t look like anyone has been inside for decades. He suddenly notices in the gloom another door next to the fireplace. It was smaller than a normal door, maybe a closet he thinks. He remembers noticing as he ran to the shed, that it was built against a large mountain. So the small door couldn’t lead to outside. That could be a lifesaver he thought, as that thing outside couldn’t surprise him from the back of the house. Or it could mean his death as he had no way out of the shed except through the front door.
Suddenly his nose picks up the smell of smoke. He turns around and sees smoke curling in through the cracks of the front door. Damn! Whatever was out there was trying to smoke him out! In desperation he looks around the shack. There has got to be another way out! He can’t die like this! He won’t die like this!
Taking short shallow breaths as the smoke gets thicker he remembers the small closet door. He races over to it and pulls it open. Maybe by some miracle there will be something inside that can save him. As he pulls open the small door, and he gasps in hope! It wasn’t a closet. It was a door to the inside of the mountain! It was lit by strange crystals. He had never seen anything like it! Briefly he wonders if he was running from one danger into another. But, as he heard the wood behind him crackle with flame he knew he didn’t have a choice. He had to move forward. Behind him was certain death.
He closes the door behind him and walks forward. The crystals give off a glow as they light the way for him. He hopes that because of the fire, whatever is behind him won’t find the small door. The path inside the mountain curves to the left as his bare, bleeding feet raise little clouds of dust.
As he walks he notices the path heading downward, he’s walking further into the heart of the mountain. He spies a bundle of what looks like rags ahead of him. As he gets nearer he sees the bones. Human bones. He can’t tell how old they are, not even from the rotted cloth. His heart skips a beat, but he knows he has no choice but to keep going forward.
As he walks, he loses his sense of time. Seems like hours since he first walked through that small door. Just as he thinks the path will never end he walks into a large cavern.
The strange glowing crystals cover the walls, lighting it up as if the sun shone inside. He stood in awe of the beauty. The colors were clear and pure. The silence unbroken. He is so tired. He can’t resist sitting.
Just for a minute he thinks. I have got to rest just for a second. He leans back against one of those crystals and feels a slight warmth. His hand still held tight to the poker. As his head begins to drop to his chest in much-needed sleep, his ears pick up a noise. It’s very slight, but in the quiet of the cavern it echos against the walls. His head pops up, his eyes searching for the source of the noise. He scurries behind the crystal as he sees something that strikes terror in his heart.
A creature floats inside, slowly coming right towards him! It has green glowing eyes, in a face that is hidden by a cowl. The eyes glow brighter as they fix on him. He saw no feet. Just a light-colored robe of some kind. It went from head to foot in a silvery type material. There was nowhere to run anymore! Just as the creature floats closer he feels himself fading, he slips down and his eyes close. His fingers relax and the poker slides away.
He gasps awake, sitting straight up, terror on his face. He glances around and can’t believe his eyes. He’s home! In his own bed! Was it a dream then? Just a dream! Frantically, with his heart still beating hard he looks around his familiar room. Nothing is changed. Everything is as it should be. He sighs with relief. He swings himself to the side of the bed. His feet hit the floor and he winces in pain. Glancing down he feels the blood drain from his face.
His feet are dirty, bloody, and hurt like hell. Then he notices the smell, like smoke that drifts from his torn T-shirt. No! It had to have been a dream! Right?
Just a dream………….
I haven’t done a Sam and Me comic in a while. So today I thought I would. Hope you enjoy!
**Please click the comic to enlarge**
Write a six-word story about what you think the future holds for you, and then expand on it in a post.
Misty future is shaped by dreams.
I don’t know what the future holds for me. All I can do is try my best to make my writing dreams a reality. The rest is up to the powers that be. I try to live one day at a time. I try to write every day.
My health at this time is not the best. Every day I grow older. We all do. I might die tomorrow, or today. So with those thoughts I do what I can every day to live my dream and try to make it in my future.
For myself I try to forget past hurts and disappointments so it won’t color my day. Everyday is a new beginning for me. Every day is a fresh start to try to do what I love. Write.
I try to be at peace with my surroundings. With the people in my life. It’s not always easy. So every day I try again.
The future to me is this misty path I travel down. As I walk a bit of it clears, a bit of the mist swirls and then disappears. I make my future for the most part.
What I can’t make happen myself I leave to fate. I can try to shape it, mold it to my liking, but there are so many other factors to deal with. Unknown factors that make every minute of every day an adventure.
Some of what happens I don’t like, some I love, and some is just mundane.
The main part of any day is mine to make it what I will. To walk down that misty path and see it take shape the way I want it to. With my words, my thoughts and my heart.
I love that misty path of my life. For it is ever-changing and I have a hand in that change. Yet a lot of it is by the hand of fate.
And that’s just fine with me.
When you were 10, what did you want to be when you grew up? What are you now? Are the two connected?
I liked today’s Daily Prompt. I thought it was a good one for my 251st post. Yea me! Just over 250 posts! I never thought I would get this far, next stop 500 posts!
When I was 10 I already knew what I wanted to be. I just never told anyone, except my journal. I always kept a daily journal, did for many years. That’s where I kept my fears, worries, loves, likes, hates and dreams.
Ever since I was even younger than 10 I knew I wanted to be a writer. That has always been my secret dream. In my family dreams were kept secret, if they weren’t they were shot down pretty quickly. I was never smart enough, pretty enough, whatever enough.
I got this from my mom mostly, but also from my siblings. My dad never said too much. He was even quieter than me. I always had a suspicion that my dad knew I wanted more out of life than to get married and have kids. He knew I had bigger dreams. Like me though, he never said anything.
I had dreams of traveling far and wide and writing wonderful novels full of strong women who did great exciting things! I wanted to write the kind of books that made other girls dream big dreams. I wanted to write so girls and women felt powerful and in control of their lives.
I wanted to be the kind of writer that not necessarily rich, but famous in a good way. Who was looked up to. Who was admired for her ability to write.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be, when I was 10 or now when I’m much older than 10. A writer.
Ah what dreams we hold when we take a pen in hand and put words down on paper. That’s how I first began to write way back then. With a pen on paper. Now it’s on the computer where I have help in spelling and grammar. After all one must be practical also. While I’m a pretty good at spelling, my grammar sometimes needs work.
So what am I now? Besides a whole lot older? I’m still a dreamer of dreams. A writer of words. Just not quite where I wanted to be at this age. Too many side tracks in life. Did I get married and have those kids after all? Yes and no. Yes I got married. First one was a bust with a capital B. This second one? The jury is still out on it.
As for kids, nope no kids. Couldn’t have them and truthfully, haven’t missed anything as far as I’m concerned. I have my four-legged fur babies and more than content with that. Mother material I’m not.
So here I am. No longer that dreamer of 10, but someone older with dreams still firmly attached. No matter what crap life handed out to me I held on to that dream of being a writer.
I am now trying to make that dream come true. Full steam ahead! So I suppose in many ways the two are still firmly connected. I have held many jobs in my life, done many things, travelled some, changed a lot. But one thing has never differed.
What I wanted to be when I grew up.
They sat, barely touching. The fire crackled softly in front of them. It was cold, but they didn’t feel it. The night sky was full of stars, brightly shining down upon the two. Their soft voices mingled with the slight breeze, wafting upwards among the trees.
They smiled, laughing softly. The night was quiet, beautiful. It was just the two of them. Hands would touch, then flutter away like birds newly learning to fly. The little puffs of mist when they breathed, entwined like lovers.
The white snow glistened in the moonlight. Sparkling like a spread of precious gems laid out before them. The small creatures that would normally be heard scuttling in the bushes, even they were quiet this night.
Soft cloth enfolding them in its fibers. Making two seem as one. They exchanged ideas, words flowed freely between the two. They spoke of faraway lands, of people known and cared about. Each so different from the other, yet each the same.
With each word, each idea, each story they grew closer. The found that even though they lived much different lives, they were still the same inside. They were dreamers.
Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.
I love that quote by Harriet Tubman. It says so much, with a few words. I am a self-proclaimed Dreamer. I even state that in my ‘About’ page. I am a dreamer of dreams. I always will be. I am proud to be a dreamer. Without us, where would the world be? To have great inventions, great ideals, great works of art, and yes great books. There must be a dreamer behind it.
I had a short conversation with a fellow blogger about being a dreamer the other day. It got me to thinking, which I do occasionally. My friend Managua Gunn over at A Pirate’s Haven (visit his wonderful blog, please) is also a dreamer. We both have gotten into trouble over that. Some people don’t understand dreamers. I know I have been misunderstood all my life, because I dream.
I dream wide awake. I can sit for hours and look out a window and dream of far away places of mystery. Places I have never been, except in my mind. I make up stories of what happens in those mysterious places. The people, the culture, the beauty and the differences. I have people do certain things in my dreams and sit back and see what happens afterwards. It’s fun to see how things turn out. Of course I was the only one who saw this. Then I started writing.
I’ve been writing for almost as long as I’ve been reading, but not for as long as I’ve been dreaming. When I discovered that I could write those dreams down, that I could write what happens to my characters in my dreams. Put them in certain situations and write how they sorted through the mess I put them in. It was then I found my love of writing. No one ever saw those writings. They were personal, they were mine. And quite frankly after being told all my life that a dreamer never amounted to anything, I was terrified of putting my writings out there for people to read.
Are dreams and imagination the same? Well let’s see. The definition of a dreamer is;
1. a person who lives in or escapes to a world of fantasy or illusion; escapist. A person who is unpractical or idealistic.
An imagination is defined as;
Is there really a difference? A dreamer is a person who has the faculty of forming new ideas, images or concepts! So the difference between the two is, the dreamer is the person, the imagination is what drives a dreamer. So why is being a dreamer considered a bad thing by some people? One is a person, the other is an action. So therefore I consider myself a person of action!
I’m sure my mother, my ex, and a select few others would disagree with me. And that’s okay. Now that I have found blogging (yeah I’m a late bloomer) I have found another outlet for my dreams. I am also a whole lot braver, because with this blog I put those stories out there for others to read and critique. But you know what? That doesn’t scare me anymore. Because Dreamers have that bravery. They are more then willing to put their dreams out there for others to see and hopefully we dreamers can fuel some others into becoming Dreamers with us.
We can’t ever have enough dreamers. That is what is makes this world a beautiful place. Some dreamers might have similar ideas, but it’s how those ideas are dreamt that makes them all unique. And dreamers have passion and strength. We don’t give up on our dreams, we keep plugging at it.
My dream is to become the best dreamer I can, and to have my imaginings out where others can enjoy them as much as I do. For people who love to read, to dream, to imagine with me. Thanks for reading my picture of words. Thanks for letting me dream a little for you.
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Where we talk books, writing and life in general.
/ˈōlēō/: a miscellaneous collection of things.